“I’ll have a Scotch, please,” my husband Carl told the young female bartender at the cozy Craignure Inn pub on the Isle of Mull.

“Sir, you are in Scotland,” she admonished with a smile. “To you it’s whisky!”

So much for something getting lost in translation in a different culture. Nevertheless, we happily toasted Scotland — one of our favorite destinations.

We had just arrived on Mull — a scenic island in the Inner Hebrides, dotted with sheep and castles — via the 45-minute Caledonian MacBrayne ferry from Oban on the west mainland.

Before popping into the pub, we had driven our rental car off the ferry, then checked into the Isle of Mull Hotel, conveniently located near the ferry landing.

We were on a pilgrimage to visit the tiny island of Iona, 35 miles away. With a population of only 120, it’s just three miles long and one mile wide.

Revered worldwide as a spiritual tourist destination, Iona is considered to be the seat of Christianity in Scotland. Early Scottish royalty are buried here. Some 140,000 flock to Iona annually — mostly day trippers, since there are limited overnight accommodations, which include the abbey, a few hotels and B&Bs.

Day trippers ourselves, the next morning — a beautiful, sunny summer day — we headed to Iona. Although it’s not far, because of the single-track road we allowed an hour. We left especially early to avoid the tour buses that would soon be arriving with new batches of tourists off the ferry. (July and August are the busiest months.)

This was going to be an adventure. This was one of those excursions where the journey is just about as interesting as the destination. Besides driving on the “wrong side” of the road — and, in this case, on a narrow, winding single-track road — we were careful to avoid roadside sheep, bicyclists, occasional cars and buses, or the bright red Royal Mail van. Inevitably, when two vehicles confronted each other on the single-track road, one would have to back up to the nearest pullout to allow passing. A toot and a wave to the other driver, and we were off once again.

Fortunate to have great weather, we slowly drove through the vivid green fields and steep hillsides, finally arriving at the tiny ferry landing in Fionnphort, where we parked the car.

We walked onto a small Caledonian MacBrayne ferry — which also took on a few cars, but only those of Iona residents. Crossing the Sound of Iona took less than 10 minutes.

After docking and disembarking, we strolled up the hill past the white sandy beach, a few beached boats, the small post office, grazing sheep in a green field, some shops and cottages. We headed for the landmark abbey, about a 15-minute walk.

Iona has a fascinating history. It was here, in 563, that a kind, holy monk of royal blood named Columcille (“Dove of the Church”), age 42, accompanied by 12 companions, arrived from Ireland, where he had founded monasteries. Here he also founded “a monastery that was to become the heart of the Scottish church during its early years. One of the most important monasteries in early medieval Europe, it was a renowned centre of learning and artistic excellence with extensive international contacts,” wrote Anna Ritchie and Ian Fisher in “Iona Abbey and Nunnery.”